


Caramel macchiato for Credence Barebone?

by rowankhanna



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Books, Bookshop, Coffee Shop, Coffee Shops, Fluff, Hiatus, Library, M/M, Reading, bookshops, coffee shop AU, sorry but it's a dang hiatus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-06 12:55:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8752354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowankhanna/pseuds/rowankhanna
Summary: ON HIATUSModern day coffee shop AU. Credence visits the same Starbucks at the same time every single day and orders a caramel macchiato, always made by Newt, and one day he finds himself in the same library as Newt, directing his barista to a book called Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them.





	1. Of libraries and strange book titles

**Author's Note:**

> I went to go see Fantastic Beasts again midway through writing this, and it was just as good, if not even better the second time round! I hope you like this fic - I thought Newt would make a cute barista, and I really love the smell of a Starbucks caramel macchiato, even if I hate coffee. And I feel like Credence would be a big reader - escaping to other worlds and all that.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Newt knows Credence’s order before he even steps up to the register; he eases aside his fellow barista Jacob to take to the register, smiling brightly at the black-haired boy. “Caramel macchiato?” he asks and Credence nods silently, watching Newt scrawl his name in Sharpie on the cup and process his gold-coloured Starbucks card. “It’ll be just a minute,” he says, though he’s said it so many times that Credence doesn’t need to be told – he just waits, watching Newt make his coffee, face taut with concentration until he looks up, placing the cup on the counter and placing a sleeve on it, knowing that Credence is sensitive and burns himself in seconds if he’s not careful. It’s a routine of affection.

“Your coffee’s ready,” Newt says uselessly, but he says it anyway. Credence nods and takes it, shuffling out of the shop. He’s been buying coffee at Starbucks every morning at the same time for at least a month, so routinely that Newt could probably have Credence’s macchiato made and ready for him the second he walks in the door, but he keeps the routine, knowing that Credence likes it that way. He wishes he could muster his courage and say something to Newt beyond nods and confirmations – Newt has spoken before, introduced himself, made comments to Credence on the state of the weather and other such things, but never pushes Credence to say anything back, just smiles at him like he means it, or like he hears the replies that never leave Credence’s mind.

Credence drinks his coffee on his way to the library, the city abuzz with people on their way to work or school. He’s not going anywhere, his college course not due to start for another few weeks, but he wakes early out of habit and out of needing to usher his siblings to school, so he keeps his mornings busy by drinking coffee and reading. He also likes walking through New York in the mornings – it might be packed with people, but he likes being able to disappear into the crowd and watch them all pass, wondering where they’re going, where they work, if they go to school, who they are, if they have names more or less boring than Newt or Credence. Plus, the air is always at least mildly crisp, allowing him to bundle up in his black coat, at least for a while.

He reaches the library and drops his drained macchiato into the bin, hurrying inside. He loves the library, its rows and rows of bookcases that stretch up to the glass ceiling, embossed titles shining gold in the fluorescent lighting. He reaches into his speckled grey messenger bag, taking out the books he’s just finished and returning them through the computers. He’s glad the library is computerised like this – it keeps him from having to speak to the librarians unless he has to, ensuring that his gentle mornings aren’t stirred by anxiety. Once he places his books in the bins, trying not to make too much noise despite the sonorous _clang!_ of the metal flap opening, he begins to walk. He knows where everything is by now, the filing system of the library ingrained in his passive mind, but he still finds himself wandering, looking at the titles on the spines, wondering if any of them will catch his attention.

He finds himself, as he always does, in the young adult section. Credence’s literacy skills would be far better utilised on other books – he could read classics easily – but he always ends up reading young adult fiction. Something about it strikes him: the way emotions are laid bare, the way things are easy to understand, the way he doesn’t have to flick back and read through the lines, the way that people get together and have happy endings. He doesn’t know what that feels like. He wishes he did.

He picks up a book he hasn’t read before but that’s been interesting him for a long while and sits down on the sofa – he wonders why they have comfy seats in the YA section but nowhere else – sitting pin-straight while he reads, the only time he ever has proper posture, only leaning over when he gets drawn in, slowly hunching himself over, engrossed in the pages – he loses the time, the hours, the minutes so easily, only disrupted when he hears somebody knocking something over, and a very familiar voice: “Oh dear – I’m very sorry – oh dear, please excuse me – oh, I am so sorry...”

Credence looks up, and his ears are correct: Newt is there, having knocked over one of the display stands. He’s not dressed in his green apron, instead wearing a shirt and brown tweed waistcoat, a plush navy coat thrown over, his outfit seeming to bolster him, and Credence’s mind is instantly filled with questions: why is he here? What is he reading? How on Earth did he manage to knock over the thriller display?

Newt lifts the stand back up, slotting the books back in with the help of the librarian; Credence would help, but Newt is on the other side of the library and it’s not small, though somehow the man feels his gaze and looks up, beaming at Credence and giving him a small wave, hurrying over the minute he’s helped accidentally rearrange the library’s selection, strides long and meaningful.

“Hello, Credence,” he says breathlessly, taking a seat. He’s carrying a suitcase, using it as some kind of bag, and he holds it tightly in his hands, his knuckles almost white from his grip. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“I, um, like reading. Keeps me busy.” Credence closes the book, using his thumb as a temporary bookmark, though he already knows he’s on page 163. Just in case he forgets in the surprise of actually talking to Newt and using words that aren’t ‘caramel’ and ‘macchiato’. “And you?”

“Looking for a certain book.” Credence’s curiosity is piqued.

“What book?” he asks. He knows where almost all the books in the library are, his memory abuzz with titles and authors and the colour of the spines. He hasn’t particularly tried to memorise where the books are, but they find themselves happily sliding into place in his mind, the library his palace.

“Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them,” Newt replies. Credence pauses, processing the mildly intriguing title, and he turns momentarily to the man beside him, but decides to let the peculiar title slide by, like a paper boat on a tiny pond. There are plenty books out there with weird and wonderful titles, one of which Credence has had the pleasure of reading before ( _The Hundred-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out the Window and Disappeared_ ), and he supposes that, if he thinks about it, Newt does seem like the kind of person to read books with strange titles. If he imagined it, Credence could easily image Newt having a vintage upholstered bookcase filled with all kinds of weird and wonderful novels. “Do you know where it might be?”

“Hm? Oh!” Credence realises that this is what he’s meant to be thinking about, not Newt’s reading habits, and his instinct flares up, directing him. “I think so. It should be this way.” Newt is right behind him, coat billowing. Credence wonders vaguely if Newt puts some kind of wind machine in his coat, then pushes the stupid thought away, where it belongs. He wishes he could push the darkness away so easily, too, from where it reaches out and grabs at him. His mind is like a _Twenty-One Pilots_ song (or so he’s been told; he’s not sure what this means, most popular culture very much lost on him).

The twists and turns of the library are labyrinthine to most people, even those used to the library, but not to Credence. He doesn’t get lost. He just walks, and he always walks in the right direction. He casts glances over his shoulder, making sure he hasn’t accidentally lost Newt on a keen turn, and comes to a standstill in a section that doesn’t have a name, thanks to the perpetual moving of the library’s signs by some kind of mystery poltergeist (or, as Credence suspects, naughty patron). Newt runs straight into him, startled by the sudden halt. “Oh, I am so sorry,” he mumbles, stepping backwards, his Britishness apparent in his automatic apologies.

Credence crouches. “Here it is here. It’s a little bit dusty.” He runs his fingers along the shelf until they catch around the book, and he eases it out from its taut position in the shelf. It’s not old but has been very neglected; a cursory examination proves that it’s never been taken out before. It’s in hardback, but with no cover, just golden text inscribed on the front. He passes it over to Newt, who looks at the book with absolute awe, as if it were shining a warm yellow glow.

“Thank you,” he breathes, his breath like a blustery gale. He blows the layers of dust away, coughing as they predictably blow back into his face. He tucks the book under his arm. “You know this place well.”

“I have a lot of free time,” replies Credence, leading Newt back out of the maze, the two of them passing somebody who seems almost entirely lost and tags along for a few turns before losing themselves again, disappearing back into the abyss. Newt walks with surprising purpose, like he knows where he’s going, even though it’s clear to Credence that he’s just following along, eyes wandering along the bookcases, taking in as much as he can while maintaining his pace, his book nestled into him. “What’s the book for?”

“Oh, it’s for university. I study...” He pauses. “Zoology.”

Credence looks back. “What’s that?”

“It’s the study of crea– er, animals and the animal kingdom.” He smiles, looking slightly flustered, cheeks pink, and changes the subject quickly. “Are you studying anything? University, college, high school?”

“I’m due to start studying theology in a few weeks,” Credence replies, stepping back out into the main foyer of the library and guiding Newt towards the machines that check out books, modern marvels in an elderly library. Newt’s library card is battered and, despite it being incredibly hard to bend, one of the corners is almost folded over, and it seems somehow scorched, but the machine still takes it and lets him check out the book, warning him that he has an extremely overdue copy of something else and owes the library several dollars. Credence wants to interject and ask Newt why he hasn’t brought the book back, but it’s not his library, and he doesn’t want to make Newt angry. He doesn’t want to make anyone angry.

“And where does your interest in theology stem?” Newt asks, sticking his library card in his mouth to put the book in the battered brown case he’s carrying before placing it back in his pocket. Something about the way he holds the card in his mouth is strangely endearing to Credence, who tries to shake it from his mind.

“Um... occultism. I’m interested in witches.” Newt raises an eyebrow, and Credence instantly worries that he’s managed to scare off his barista, but Newt doesn’t seem to mind, leading Credence to the nearest sofa to sit down. Newt has perfect posture; Credence is prone to leaning over and tucking into himself. “What got you interested in zoology?”

“I like animals,” he replies simply. “They’re not as difficult as people. And what about you? Witches seem like a peculiar topic to be interested in.”

“Ma had an obsession – she was convinced there were witches here and was always trying to stop them, but she was more like Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell than King James the Fifth.” He pauses, suddenly realising that Newt may not understand who Shadwell is, or perhaps even not know who King James the Fifth (or First) is. Though he is British. Newt doesn’t even blink, nodding along contentedly. Maybe he _has_ read _Good Omens_ and knows his witch-killing history. “I just ended up interested, too. Though I’m not convinced we should burn anybody, least of all witches.”

“Oh? And what makes you say that?”

“Well, if there is magic out there, couldn’t it be used for the greater good? It could be used to accomplish many things. It could make some dangerous and environmentally harmful technology redundant. Why burn people who have power that they could use for the best?”

Newt chews on his bottom lip, looking intrigued. “Very true,” he says, though it sounds to Credence as if he’s keeping his voice tempered; perhaps he shares Credence’s vehement passion for the subject. He checks his watch. “Oh, dear, look at the time; I really have to get going.” He stands up, picking up his suitcase, though one of its latches seems to have popped open. “I’ll see you tomorrow as usual, then?” Credence nods, watching Newt hurry away, coat blustering behind him like wings, and it occurs to him that he can’t wait for his next caramel macchiato.


	2. Of bookshops and young adult fiction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Credence orders his coffee to sit-in this time, and Newt invites him to a bookshop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long! I've been really busy this week, and I've been going through the whole "is this story worth it? oh i hate it i should delete it!" that happens with everything I write, so it took me a while to finish this chapter. I've been working hard to keep the tone, and I hope you guys like the finished product!

The laptop hums peacefully in the corner on Credence’s desk as he sits on his bed, mattress sinking beneath him, looking up to his ceiling and murmuring a prayer. None of them have ever been answered, and he knows that he can stop now that Ma’s gone, but he prays every night and every morning in the vain hope that someday he’ll have his miracle, someday the heavens will open and he will bask in its light and everything will be alright. It doesn’t need to be perfect; alright does Credence just fine.

He gets up to take his sisters to school, though he barely needs to: the two of them could walk on their own, their Barebone stares enough to act as an efficient deterrent from messing with them. Dealing with Modesty is difficult: Credence is used to being her brother, not her guardian, finding himself eternally perplexed by how he is meant to stop her singing ‘disturbing playground chants’ or what he’s meant to do to ‘encourage her classroom participation’.

After he delivers them safely at the playground, sheepishly avoiding the wondering eyes of the other children and parents, he heads straight for Starbucks, as ever, revelling in its familiar warmth, 1920s-style jazz humming lightly through the speakers. Newt is standing behind the counter, speaking animatedly to a girl with a dark bob, but he spots Credence the instant the bell on the door jingles and smiles at him, excusing himself from the girl for a second.

“Caramel macchiato?” he asks brightly.

“To sit in,” Credence replies. Newt raises an eyebrow, surprised, but just goes back to beaming like a lantern, putting his black Sharpie back down and fetching a large mug instead, subtly only charging Credence for a small, though Credence catches the total while Newt runs it through, bestowing a small smile at the floor. He casts his gaze along to the girl who was talking to Newt, standing and waiting for her coffee. He wonders who she is: Newt speaks to her so fondly, with the gentlest haze over his eyes.

“You can sit down, you know,” Newt says over the counter to Credence, passing a paper cup over to the girl and giving her a smile. “I’ll come and give you your drink. Are you sure you wouldn’t like something to eat? It’s on me.” Credence shuffles and awkwardly shakes his head, his eyes following the trail of a blueberry muffin being packed away for the customer on the right of him, but he heads to a chair, one in the corner. There’s a cushion on the seat and the table is shiny with varnish, cut with clear lines and pools of dark brown coffee. He sits on the cushion which lightly deflates beneath him and zips open his messenger bag, meticulously organised, when Newt arrives, beaming down at him. He looks unusual now that Credence can see all of him: he’s wearing the same trousers, turned up at the bottom, with his nearly-scuffed boots, but instead of his coat and waistcoat, he’s wearing the Starbucks apron, as green as Christmas, a mug in one hand and a plate in the other, perfectly balanced.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I know, I _know_ you said not to bring you something to eat. But you look so hungry.” He leans down, depositing a toasty warm breakfast sandwich on the table, followed by a piping cup of coffee. “My shift ends in an hour.”

Credence looks up. “What do you mean?”

“We could talk more,” Newt offers, and Credence goes silent, unable to form sentences or even words in his head. Everything has narrowed in to _Newt_ and _we could talk more_ and he takes a deep breath, stumbling even over that; Newt courteously bows a little and strolls away, leaving Credence sitting comfortably, hands frozen where they float over the pages of his library books. He spends a few seconds in glorious limbo until he moves again, producing a book about teenaged wizards that he’s found highly enjoyable, an experience rather than a novel. It reminds him of his ambition, his childhood desire to cast spells, his snapped wands, but without the misery that comes with his own. The story reminds him of Starbucks, of warm red walls and the aroma of ground beans, of Newt’s big blue coat.

He takes a sip of coffee before he forgets that it’s there; it warms every fibre of his being, and his eyes get lost in the words, printed neatly in small serif, the world washing over him – spells, boarding school, hot-blooded romance, the crashing of adolescent egos, the efflorescent language – as the café fades away from him, his sips of coffee and munches of heated sandwich muscle memory, a first kiss tasting like sugar and a fierce battle of spells tasting like tomato.

The time has barely moved for him when Newt sits down opposite him, hair fluffy and grin wide. “You’re enjoying that book,” he notes as Credence’s eyes lift to meet his, but only for the slightest of milliseconds before he flusters and returns them to his book, which he traps shut with a bookmark. “Oh, no, don’t stop on my account, please...”

“That’s alright,” Credence mumbles. “The longer it takes me to read, the longer I have to enjoy it, right?”

“That’s a good way of looking at it.” Newt takes a sip of his own drink; Credence wonders what kind it is – tea, coffee, hot chocolate? He places his book back into his bag, slotting it in like the last piece of a jigsaw. “I don’t get much time to read, in between making coffee and studying.”

“You could try audiobooks,” Credence replies. Newt laughs.

“I could, if I had any money.” He gestures to the remnants of Credence’s sandwich, a bite and a half he couldn’t take. “Can I finish that?”

“Sure.” He pulls the plate along the table and finishes the sandwich, graceful somehow even when he’s eating. Credence watches him eat, mind turning gently, cogs in a wheel. “Who was that girl earlier?”

“Tina? We go to the same university. Had a few misadventures, here and there.”

“What brought you to the United States?”

Newt smiles, bashful, his cheeks soft and pink. His accent was an easy giveaway: too thick for him to have been in New York for any length of time, unaffected by the local American drawl. “I felt like a change,” he says, but pauses for a moment too long before he says it, and Credence detects the lie, the size of an elephant, but minimises it, shrinks it into a tiny elephant, the size of a brooch on Newt’s lapel (not that he has any). “And New York has certainly proven more interesting than I expected.”

“In what way?” Credence asks; the city has never struck him as interesting, bar when he’s strayed out too late in the evening and caught sight of the city nightlife, a world apart from his own, with flashing neon lights and dyed hair and clinking bottles. He doesn’t like being out at night – even with no-one at home to punish him, he still feels a twinge in his stomach when he steps back in through the door, like the shadows in the lamplight are interrogating him along with Chastity’s stares.

“It’s hard to explain. Things just seem to _happen_ here.” Newt’s explanation is indeed lacking, but Credence knows exactly what he means: oddities seem to occur just because they happen to be in New York. Street corners move and shift; the sky changes hues between blocks; people with hair half the height of Credence himself move among the population without a second glance; chaos occurs, and on the other side of the street, order. If the city were to be cut, no two pieces would be similar, diverse to the point of cousins not siblings. “I like it, though not as much as home. Home is more predictable.”

“New York is like a riot,” Credence replies before he can even catch himself. “But... not quite a riot. A tame riot.”

“Peaceful protest,” Newt corrects. “With signs and banners. Down with that sort of thing.”

“Exactly. Yes.” Credence pauses, running the conversation back in his head, and his mouth stretches as he breaks into laughter, deep and strong, a laugh from the heart. “What are we talking about?”

“I have no idea,” Newt replies, equally bemused. “After this, would you like to come to the bookshop with me? I’ve decided that maybe I should take up a bit more reading, and I was just paid yesterday...”

“Okay,” Credence says, surprising himself with his forthrightness. Newt makes him want to raise his voice, to be heard – though he doubts that he’d ever need to, not with Newt, always at attention. His eyes might wander – distracted, unable to hold a gaze – but he’s always listening, always responding. “Which bookstore?” He flinches at the sound of his own Americanism, impermeable.

“I didn’t even know there was more than one around here,” Newt admits. “I thought that there was just a Barnes and Nobles – is that what it’s called? I catch myself calling it Waterstones sometimes.”

“Noble,” Credence corrects, though he loses his voice – he doesn’t want to offend Newt, but he also can’t help himself wanting to help the barista adjust to the United States. “Just... just singular.”

“Okay. Shall we go there?” Credence nods, and Newt finishes his sandwich, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief pulled out of one of his many pockets, so ineffably British that Credence swears the whole Starbucks stops to stare. Newt picks up his suitcase, which appears to have picked up several more scrapes in the day that’s passed, and leads Credence out, holding the door for him.

The sun shines straight on Newt, irradiating him, glowing. Credence almost stops in his tracks, but follows on blindly, wanting to go where Newt will be, a pied piper. His bag is open and he thumbs the pages of his book, catching himself in the glass of a modern building, the indescribable look in eyes scaring him. He doesn’t know what it is, and it feels so far away from him – a look with feeling and emotions, the kind that thrum in his stomach, so far away from the lost look he usually finds his face reflecting out like a mirror into himself.

“Credence?” Newt reaches back and his fingers graze Credence’s hand, which goes stiff. “Oh, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have...”

“No, it’s fine,” Credence breathes, trying to settle himself down. His heart has begun to pump with the touch. “Sorry. I was thinking.”

“Well, thinking is good, but please try not to get yourself run over. I’d be awfully disappointed.” Credence takes a glance backwards, noticing the road behind him, cars rushing by. He hadn’t even noticed the road, so absorbed in his thoughts that his body had gone on without him, his mind still blocks away.

“I’m sorry!” he gasps. “I–”

“It’s fine,” Newt assures him. “Everyone gets lost in thought. Come on now, let’s keep walking and not hold up the street.” He closes his hand round Credence’s and leads him onwards, not letting go of his hand until they’re safely walking and Credence’s focus is on the street and not his thoughts.

The Barnes and Noble nearest them is a very large store, likely the largest store without its own café, though it’s speckled with sofas and chairs, decorated with plush plump pillows and the occasional ruffled blanket, intended mainly for distraught students. Newt shuffles over the fiction section, taking it all in as he goes, and Credence follows, but slower, picking up a few books on the way to examine the blurbs and run his finger along the text on the spine and on the front cover, feeling the bumps and rises in embellished artwork and embossed titles. Sure, he wouldn’t read _The Ins and Outs of Human Biology for Beginners_ , but the cover certainly feels nice under his thumb.

He glances up to Newt, who’s standing under _Fantasy_ and has a book in his hands, gingerly leafing through it, a careful reader. The book is a large hardback, an artistic re-release, with glossy pages on the inside with commissioned pieces, explosions of black and red and blue. Credence steps over. “What have you got there?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Newt says softly, placing the book back on the shelf. “I awfully fancy it, but it’s too expensive, being the special edition that it is.”

“Yeah,” Credence sympathises. “I don’t like it when they don’t have a regular paperback edition.”

Newt sighs wistfully. “Do you have any recommendations?”

“I read a little under my age group,” Credence says shyly, rubbing his arm, feeling his back begin to hunch over in his nervousness. He feels ashamed by his reading habits, too old for young adult fiction, too much of a boy to enjoy tender love stories (his guilty pleasure, besides fanfiction). Newt shrugs.

“I don’t discriminate. All books should be treated equally, as they all have the potential to touch everyone’s hearts, from every age group.” Credence nods, steeling himself, and leads Newt upstairs  to the young adult section, a sprawlingly comfortable place with carpets and sofas and graphic novel posters and pastel-coloured chunky hardbacks with minimalist silhouettes. The bookcases are decorated with Funko Pop figures, intact in their boxes, from the last pop culture craze, and Newt comes nose-to-nose with a Peeta Mellark, staring him down. “You like young adult fiction, then?”

“Yes...” Credence winds and unwinds his fingers compulsively, trying to resist the temptation to shake. Newt is judging him. Newt is judging him. He can feel it. Newt thinks he’s stupid, pathetic, a baby, gay–

Though what does it matter if Credence Barebone is gay?

–but when he looks, Newt is just smiles. “I like it, too. The books are so full of hope for the future, even if they’re set in worlds full of absolute misery.” He pauses. “What books do you like?”

“I like a lot of them,” says Credence. “What kinds of books do _you_ like?”

“All kinds, but if I had to decide, I like books with stories that obsess and engage you until you can’t stop thinking about them, until they’re your life, until you reblog them every day, until you write lines from them in your notebook when you’re not paying attention in class.” Newt runs a finger along a series of books with the spine colours a bright rainbow. “Other books tend not to stay with you. I like books that don’t go away.”

“I think I know a few like that.” Credence selects a few books and lets Newt read the first few pages on the sofa, a happy burst of blue coat and messy hair against the black leather whilst Credence sits on a rock-hard chair, reading up on the history of Vivienne Westwood, on sale for a few dollars, but the Seditionaries fly over his head, representing a movement he doesn’t understand in an era he doesn’t understand in a country that he can only associate with tea, crumpets, and Newt Scamander. He likes the pictures, he supposes – in black and white, just like him. And he likes the pirates.

Newt comes up to him with two books under his arm and a raised eyebrow decorating his features. “Didn’t think you were a Queen Viv kind of person.” Queen Viv? Credence wonders if this is some kind of British thing – the book in his hands certainly told him that she was a British household figure.

“I’m not. I was just curious.” He puts the book back on the sale rack. “Have you decided?”

“I have. It was difficult. I wanted to read them all.” His face is warm and flushed with a grin. Credence follows him to the checkout; Newt has a wallet with so many pockets and cardholders that it’s impossible to keep up with his hands as they turn it over and under, producing a few crushed notes. Like everything of Newt’s, it looks like it’s seen better days, well-loved and used beyond use. He puts the books away in his suitcase, which seems to move and twitch when Credence looks at it, but he shrugs it off.

They depart back out into the summer sun when Credence’s phone begins to ring – startled, he pulls it from his pocket, answering it with a bewildered “hello?”. He listens intently, then sighs, then says “I’ll come and get her” and hangs up. Newt is watching him. “My sister,” he explains. “She’s sick.”

“I know some good herbal remedies,” Newt offers, taking out his own phone, an old smartphone with a scratched screen and a weary Postmodern Jukebox case, and he gives Credence his phone number, carefully checking over each number, trying to conceal his smile. “I hope she’s alright.”

“So do I.”

Newt leans forward and brushes his lips to Credence’s forehead, gentle, like a breeze. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“I’ll try to make it.” He’s red, and as Newt turns to go his own way, Credence reaches up, brushing his fingers against his forehead, his breath caught.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've started working on the next chapter already, so hopefully it'll be finished a lot sooner! It might have a change in tone (!) and go a little angsty, so I hope that's okay with everyone. There's always angst out there. I'm an angsty teen, and the angst just escapes sometimes. Thank you so much for reading!! And I'm sorry I ramble in the notes!!


	3. Of illnesses and learning magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modesty is ill; Newt comes to help out and finds that he can't, in all good faith, leave Credence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG AW JEEZ I asked someone to proof this and they didn't, and I was also totally wrapped up in writing my Christmas oneshots. I'd say that I'll try to keep a consistent upload schedule, but I have exams and stuff so heck knows, but I'm not abandoning this! I love Crewt!

Credence sits on the floor by Modesty’s bed, and he’s mostly asleep when the doorbell rings, starting him, the back of his black-haired head cracking against the oakwood frame. He blinks back stinging tears of surprise and tumbles through the matrix of the hall before he reaches the front door, weary and in need of a fresh coat of paint, unhooking the chain, twisting the lock, and pulling it open.

When he sees Newt, he lets himself cry, tears hot and wet on his cheeks, tears of exhaustion and of his sudden pain. He steps aside to let the barista out of the charred stairwell and shuts the door, instinct commanding him to lock it and chain it as he guides the draft excluder back over with his foot, blocking out the bottom of the door and blocking Credence from the rest of the world, the way he likes it after a long day of inhaling city air and forcing himself to pass through claustrophobic crowds. He needs his space.

“Credence.” Newt says his name softly, the stillness to his turbulence, and Credence turns to face him, ashamed of his streaky and uncontrolled expression. Newt is holding a takeaway Starbucks cup – no, two, nestled in a cardboard carrier – and he offers one to Credence, who takes it thankfully. He’s tired, distraught, the previous two days a blur of staying with Modesty, watching her go paler until her skin became like paper, soaking cloths in cold water to fight her raging temperature, wiping her mouth with flannels when she was sick, the noise of her retching loud enough to wake the dead. His only reprieve had been texting Newt, channelling his concern and fear into his poor, poor friend, though Newt had somehow never seemed bothered, always there, replies instant – and here he is now, in a house that could be horribly infectious, bringing coffee, smiles, and well wishes. “Are you okay?”

“No,” he murmurs. “I’m worried she’ll die. Like Ma.” He never loved his Ma – the sight of her alone instilled something in his heart, angry and violent and dark – but her death had been unpleasant, full of undertakers with sympathetic glances the Barebones didn’t want, and Credence had been through government office after government office where they all gave him sad looks as they ripped him off and apart, and he would return home only to face his teary sisters, capable of emotion Credence wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to feel, the scars on his hands reminders of how far away he stood from grief.

But his sisters. He felt for his sisters.

He takes a sip of his coffee, trying to still himself. Newt reaches out with a beautifully clean handkerchief, tenderly wiping away the moisture on the high points of Credence’s cheeks. “She’ll be okay.”

“How can you know?”

Newt pauses and chews his lip. “Because I hope for the best; always. Suffering stems from worry.” He turns into the hall. “Where is she?”

“Second on the left.” Newt makes to step forward, but Credence reaches out, taking his sleeve. “Please help me. I want her to be okay.” His voice is begging, entreating Newt.

He places his hand over Credence’s and strokes it with his thumb before removing it from his arm, but he slides his hand into Credence’s, squeezing it. “Trust me.”

“I do.”

Modesty’s room is the smallest in the apartment, and while Credence told her she could decorate it however she wanted, she kept its original 70s wallpaper and all four walls are bare, save for a pin board Credence put up for her to keep reminders on, though it had ended up just covered in scrawled-over New Salem leaflets and the occasional post-it note reminding her of homework. She lies in her bed, asleep, dwarfed by its dark green covers, a spectre with a wet cloth on its forehead and a plastic bin by its side. She looks smaller than a child, a doll, porcelain.

“This is her room?” Newt asks, looking around. “It’s very empty.”

“I think Ma got her the worst.” Credence has his scars and Chastity her commandments, and sometimes they stay up at night when their memories chase sleep away, sitting in the living room and sharing snacks, discussing how they feel and how they survive day by day, their differences miles long, their similarities stronger, but Modesty, she doesn’t say a thing to either of them about Ma – she doesn’t ever speak much at all, in fact. It worries Credence; it worries Modesty’s therapist. Chastity tries to get through to her, but neither of them can break the shell and neither are sure they ever will. “We don’t know what’s wrong with her – in general. She’s not like the other girls her age.”

“I can’t fix that,” Newt says quietly. He’d let go of Credence’s hand to look around, but he takes it again; Credence’s has gone cold. “But I can cure the illness.”

“Nobody can fix us,” says Credence, his voice like sandpaper.

“I can try to fix you.” Newt lets go of Credence again and walks, movement tempered, getting closer to Modesty. “Step back.” Credence obeys, watching as he reaches inside his coat, producing a vial of glowing orange liquid, alight like bottled sunshine. He tips open Modesty’s mouth, pours the liquid in and it fizzles – Credence fights his reflex to run over and make it stop, to tell Newt to stop it, stop hurting her – as he forces her to swallow it. He places the stopper back in the top of the vial and then the vial itself into one of his inner pockets. “That should do the trick. She should be right as rain within a few hours.”

“Thank you,” Credence breathes, deciding to ignore the happy neon medicine’s dubious origins and instead concentrate on his gratitude for Newt’s company, his presence, his help. “How can I make it up to you?” He remembers the coffee in his other hand and takes another sip – it’s cooler, but no longer scalds his tongue, at just the right temperature to savour.

“Don’t worry about it. Healthcare is free in the UK, and that’s how it ought to be here. Though I could do with a biscuit.” Newt smiles. “Just leave her to sleep for now. She’ll get better in her own time.”

Credence leads Newt through to the sitting room, shutting the door behind him as quietly as he can – which, from experience, is close to silence. The sitting room is the nicest room in the house, save Chastity’s bedroom, organised following inspiration from Pinterest and someone called Zoella. The sitting room has dark grey walls and a black ceiling, with a surprisingly decent HD flat-screen television Credence had waited in line for on a busy Black Friday, propped up on a white IKEA chest of drawers, one half-open but empty. The sofa is a strange and rough material and some kind of colour between muddy green and brown, decorated by big pillows with stag sketches on them in bold and elegant poses. Newt sits down on one while Credence fetches him a packet of chocolate digestives from the kitchen, casting his eyes around the sitting room. He scoots over to the table on the right of the sofa, wood and worn, with a dusty lamp and a framed photograph of a man Newt doesn’t recognise, with dark hair, shaved at the sides, and a serious-looking face, despite his smiling portrait.

“Don’t look at him.” Newt starts, surprised by Credence’s inaudible approach, and spins around. Credence is standing by the other end of the coffee table, placing his takeaway cup on his tabby cat coaster (his first piece of bought furniture and his true favourite) and the packet of biscuits in the space between his and Newt’s drinks.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I was just looking around.” He scoots back over to Credence, who sits down, intense gaze focused on the table, wary and unsettled.

“It’s fine. He just doesn’t deserve to be looked at.” Credence takes a gulp of coffee to settle his hackled nerves, the reminder of Percival Graves setting goosebumps alight across his arms and making his stomach drop as if he’s dipping from the top of a rollercoaster and plummeting down the vertiginous tracks at breakneck speed.

“Then why do you have the photograph?”

“Because I can’t let myself forget.”

Newt reaches his hand out; Credence takes it, looking away from him, body curved to avoid him, shame bubbling within him: the shame of a year he’ll never be able to shake, a year where the misery in his gut would rise and soar and Graves would hold it, tame it, but bring ugly guilt to his heart in the days, weeks, months before everything went wrong in a rush at once and he was lost, overwhelmed, floating in an albumescent vat of misery. It had been a year of suffering, one Credence was glad to put behind him, glad not to be permanently lost in, like he had been for so long before. Newt’s worry strikes a match to his guilt. “What did he do to you, Credence?”

Silence passes between them for a long time, the pause painfully pregnant, Credence reeling, a tangle of words and feelings and unwanted brooding. “He told me he could give me everything I wanted, and I believed him.” He doesn’t elaborate, unable to bring himself to tell Newt, unwilling to break the perfect joy of his face. “It’s over. I’m over it. I’m okay.”

“What did he tell you he could give you?”

Credence laughs, at himself, at his stupidity, at his submission and his sensitivity and his weakness and his blind trust. His blind love. “Magic. He showed me some – healed my hands – but I was stupid to think that he would teach me. That I was capable of being taught.”

Newt looks at him, at Credence, at the wreck beneath the dark eyes and the coffee and the theology degree and the love of books, straight into the broken soul of a boy who both grew up too fast and never grew up at all. He reaches out his other hand, reaches for Credence’s face, when his suitcase throws itself open and something small and black darts out before Newt can slam his case shut, sitting on it and clicking it sealed. Credence starts as the black creature darts for him and goes straight into his pocket, darting off with his loose change. Newt pulls out his wand and cries “ _accio!_ ”, the creature flying across the room and straight into his hand.

“You,” he says to the cute little creature, which reminds Credence of a platypus, “are a liability.” He shakes it and Credence’s change drops to the floor, spinning, and in just a moment, Newt shoves the creature back into his suitcase, looking bashfully up at Credence. They stare at each other for a moment. “Well... if I promised you magic, I could deliver.”

“I don’t want magic,” Credence says softly, picking his change up from the floor, a few cents here and there. “I would like you to please read to me so that I don’t have to think anymore.” He wants to ask questions. He wants to be demanding. He wants to know what’s in the suitcase and how to use magic and he wants to talk to Newt about anything and everything, but he’s tired of thinking – about death, about Ma, about Modesty, about Chastity, about Graves, about the promises and lies of magic, always under his nose yet always elusive. He wants to sleep.

He fetches Newt his book from his bag and sits at his end of the sofa, curled up and hunched over while Newt stays where he is, opening the book carefully, clearing his throat and beginning to read. There’s nothing he’d rather do for his friend, and it’s not long before Credence has shut his eyes, nor before he’s fallen asleep, the words washing over him like a foamy wave, Newt’s voice a lullaby. When he notices that Credence has nodded off, making little wheezy noises every now and then, he sits up, checking his watch. He has a lecture, but he’s too late to make it (or make it worth the time left), so he stays for a while, running his fingers through Credence’s hair, black and badly cut, but thick and healthy. He thinks he ought to go home, but can’t find it within himself to leave Credence until he knows that the boy will be okay again, the same boy who shyly orders his caramel macchiato (currently going cold on the table) day after day, unchanging, beautiful, constant.

By the time Credence wakes, Chastity has already arrived home, staring holes into Newt before politely asking him if he needs anything, her eyes not matching her words. He’d declined her offer, thanking her, and when he checked on Modesty, she was awake and well, Credence the only one left for Newt’s concern. He wakes slowly, dazedly, and the first sight his bleary eyes settle on is Newt, the haze of sleep convincing him that nothing about this is amiss. He reaches out for Newt and murmurs his name, Newt’s hand welcoming and sliding into his own, their fingers intertwining as Credence comes back into his awareness, blurting out questions about the state of his immediate family, eyes like saucers. Newt had already cleaned away his coffee, settled beyond the state of drinking, so when he reaches out for it, his fingers clutch air as Newt explains that they are absolutely fine, both _absolutely fine_.

“So,” Credence begins, but peters out right away like a spluttering motor. “Magic.”

“Magic,” Newt repeats, instinctively reaching for his wand, fingers settling around its slim frame.

“Could you – teach me?” He knows he might be wandering into another trap, surrendering himself to another Graves, but the problem with Credence has always been his faith. He believes. He believed that Graves was good; he believes that God will answer his prayers; he believes that he can give over his trust to Newt, captivated by his rounded features and wondrous eyes. He can’t shake the power of his belief, the strength that keeps him whole.

“You’re a wizard. Of course I can.” Newt has seen it: Credence’s power and potential, the sparks that run across his fingertips when he sleeps, overflowing from him, a gas tap – the same power that Graves saw, all those moons ago. “You’ll need your own wand. But you can work with mine for now.” He turns to the packet of biscuits, which he ripped open to eat a few from a while ago. “Now – I’m not sure if I’m a good teacher, really, and I’m sorry if I’m not – I’ll show you what to do. Make sure you follow exactly what I do.” Newt takes out his hand and slows his hand movement, letting Credence take it in, trying his best not to mess up, feeling like he’s taking his O.W.Ls again as he cries “ _wingardium leviosa!_ ”. The packet of biscuits lifts cleanly into the air by a few feet before Newt lowers it with a neat _plop_ onto the table. Credence looks like he’s seen a ghost, but the most beautiful ghost he’s ever seen (Newt has that effect on him). “Think you can try that?”

Credence nods and accepts Newt’s wand from him, holding it as carefully as he would a cactus, but at Newt’s slight furrowing of his brow, he tightens his grip, trying not to break it. He takes a deep breath, remembering the movement of Newt’s arm, the enunciation and focus of his words, the way the biscuits levitated so effortlessly, and he casts almost automatically: “ _wingardium leviosa!_ ”. The packet of biscuits slams into the ceiling and several crumble, raining chocolate onto Newt’s head, but Credence beams with pride, directing the wand to lower the packet on a bumpy ride down to a collapse on the table.

“You’re a natural,” Newt encourages. “That was excellent!” Keen not to entirely destroy the packet of biscuits (he does rather like them; they remind him of McVitie’s at home), he tries to think of another spell he could teach Credence – Newt barely remembers his own first spells, having spent so many years with a vast vocabulary of them, but he can think of one that seems basic to him. He pulls his wallet out of his pocket and takes out and old and used _Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes_ gift card, with only a smidgeon of credit left, and with surprising strength for a man so slight, snaps it cleanly in half, splitting an illustrated Skiving Snackbox. He taps his wand to it, and with a “ _reparo_ ”, the two halves reconnect, with no sign they’d ever been split.

Newt snaps it again for Credence’s benefit and hands him the wand. Credence pays less studious attention this time, trusting the pleasant fuzzy feeling that had come with the last spell and trusting his instinct to guide him. “ _Reparo_ ,” he says with the only confidence he’s ever had, and the two plastic pieces hear him, reforming, and while there’s a faint white line where they split, it’s almost unnoticeable. Credence’s face lights up like a Christmas tree.

“Unbelievable,” Newt says, shaking his head in amazement. “That was _incredible_!” Credence looks up at him, a picture of delight, and Newt can’t help but teach him a few more spells, none of which go as well as his _reparo_ , but none that go too badly, save for the _lumos_ that blew all the bulbs in the apartment, though Newt assures Credence that this is perfectly normal and he barely minds at all, the whispering doubts at the back of his mind quieted by his own screaming excitement.

They stop after about an hour, for tea. While Credence wishes he could afford better, he cooks ready meals in the oven and microwave respectively and Newt makes himself a Pot Noodle (“student delicacy,” he says between mouthfuls). His sisters eat in their own rooms on trays, and Credence sits in the living room with Newt, the TV on in the background, an author being interviewed about the film adaptation of her novel. They sit closer this time, legs almost touching, Newt’s in tweed and Credence’s in black.

“Will you be coming in tomorrow?” Newt asks.

“I imagine so,” Credence answers.

“Good. I like seeing you. It’s the highlight of my shift.” Newt turns, features soft like they’ve been through a Gaussian blur. Their eyes meet across the space between them and Credence wants to reach out and to do something, but it’s Newt who takes action, leaning across to close the gap between him and Credence, pressing his lips awkwardly but assuredly to Credence’s. He’s never really kissed anyone before, nor kissed someone as beautifully fragile as Credence, and he spends the entire time wondering if this is okay, while Credence is overwhelmed with feelings that swirl and rise, forming shapes like those in a latte over and over, restless as he tries to sort himself out, though he can’t, tumbling over himself, though he knows one thing for sure:

This is good. He likes this.

Newt pulls back and goes straight back into absorbing his Pot Noodle, cheeks flushed. He says nothing, nor does Credence, who looks down into the food on his lap while not looking at it at all, glancing into the vast expanses of his turbulent brain.

“Sorry,” Newt says.

“Don’t be sorry,” Credence mumbles, almost beneath the range of hearing.

Newt finishes his Pot Noodle and gets up, placing things neatly back in the kitchen. “I ought to be getting home,” he says to Credence, tucking some of his hair behind his ear.

“Can’t you stay?” Credence asks, looking up at him with eyes that prick with curiosity and pleading. Newt sighs and shifts.

“I...” He thinks about it, face shifting to follow the processes, and he shakes his head and grins openly, like a Cheshire cat. “Okay; why not?” He moves his suitcase from in front of his feet to beside the sofa and sheds his coat, though it pains him to do so, laying it on top of his suitcase like a protective charm. He has rolled-up sleeves, though the rolling was clearly done in a hurry and they’re uneven, falling down his arms, making hearty escapes. “I might have to study.” He pauses. “And I may have an Essay-Writing Quill.”

Credence breaks out of his figurative spell. “An... An Essay-Writing Quill?”

Newt presses his finger to his lips. “We’re not meant to use them, but this is my fifth essay on Erumpents this term and I think I made clear everything there was to know about them by the second.” Credence lets the words wash over him, a white wave, and smiles weakly – even Newt is a lazy worker. Credence always felt alone, engaged with his schoolwork yet finding plenty days where he wanted to do nothing more than to not move at all, never mind make sense of pages upon pages of work. Could they go hand in hand? He hadn’t thought so.

When Credence comes back from placing his own dishes (and Newt’s cutlery) in the dishwasher, the man in question is leaning over the coffee table, holding out a long piece of parchment, his quill writing as he dictates, but writing more than just what he was saying: “The Erumpent is a creature from Africa, with a thick, curse-repelling hide, a great horn, and a thick tail...” His quill transforms his simple statements, bulking them out with extra facts and the occasional diagram. Credence watches, transfixed. Newt looks up as his quill sketches out an Erumpent.

“Useful, isn’t it?” he says. Credence nods, sitting back down and smoothing his shirt. “Say, Credence. How about we go to the zoo this weekend?”

Credence has never been to the zoo. Mary Lou wasn’t the kind of mother to take the three children on family trips, and Credence’s own trips with his sisters were rare, since Modesty would just stick to his side and clutch his arm and Chastity would stare off into the distance. They were not a thrilling family. They were a visiting coffee shops family, where all three of them would absolutely not talk to each other, because if they did, the conversations would be tense enough to cut with a knife – having spent years suffering together is apparently not much for fun conversation or family time. The idea of going to the zoo is thrilling – Credence barely knows what most animals that aren’t dogs or cats look like, bar those that he sees sometimes when he’s on the Internet, though he certainly doesn’t go searching for animals.

“Okay,” he says, “that sounds good.”

Later, once Newt’s essay has mostly written itself, he camps out by Credence’s bed, tucked under a duvet from his suitcase – he has a perfectly good bed there, one oft slept on, but he’d rather not leave Credence alone now. He prepares himself for bed in his suitcase, brushing his teeth and changing into his pyjamas (which, if he’s honest, look much like his normal clothes); upstairs, Credence brushes his teeth in a cleaner mirror (Newt’s is stained all over) and brushes his hair down with his hand, splashing his face with warm water. He stares at his own face, foreign to him, a surprise every time he sees it. He doesn’t recognise his own dark eyes, his strong jawline framed by wisps of black hair, overgrown from the bowl cut he used to keep. He doesn’t cut it like that anymore, just chops his fringe messily with a pair of blunting scissors when it starts to fall into his eyes and occasionally he cuts the rest of it to keep it from becoming a mullet, though he often wonders what his hair would look like if he let it grow. Good, probably. He could hide behind it, use it as a shield.

Before he goes back to his own bedroom, he opens the door of Modesty’s a smidge to look in. She’s sitting up in bed, reading _Matilda_ , holding it tightly in her hands, but she lifts her head to watch him. “Hi,” he mumbles, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him, gently lowering himself to sit on the end of her bed, gangly legs at awkward angles no matter where he moves them. “Do you feel better?”

“Yeah,” she says, pausing, her inquisitive eyes regarding Credence, taking in everything about him. Despite Modesty’s usual policy of silence, she can sense any change in Credence, and he knows, because she always watches him like he’s an exhibit in a museum, something to be awed over. “Who’s that guy with you?”

“His name is Newt, and he’s very nice, and–”

“Are you two gay?” Credence chokes on thin air, vowels and consonants spiralling around his tongue in a dizzying tango as he tries to come up with some kind of answer to this. “I don’t mind if you are.” _Sure,_ he thinks. _That’s great. You’re fine. I’m not fine._ “You were with that man before, weren’t you? The man in the picture in the sitting room. The one you were always out with and would get beaten for.”

Credence bites his tongue, trying to suppress the shuddering that comes naturally to him when he experiences an upsurge of emotion. He didn’t know she knew: obviously, she had seen the picture, but he didn’t know that she’d known that Graves was the reason he spent so much time out late, the reason he let himself take so many beatings, the reason the murky days had seemed tolerable. Or that he felt strongly about Newt; he was barely able to express his own ideas about Newt in the safety of his own mind.

“Maybe I am,” he says. Newt is behind him, having opened the door, but Newt too is a master of silence, and Credence isn’t even looking up to see Modesty’s expression. “I don’t know about him. I just hope he likes me too.”

Modesty keeps a poker face as she reaches out to take Credence’s hand, big and warm, squeezing it. They have never been a family for talking and communication, preferring instead to speak through stolen glances and hand-holding, and Credence can translate a touch better than any word. He leans in closer to Modesty, melting into the love she shows him, the love she is capable of showing him, the love when she saw his face change and the despondency settle in, the love when his hands would burn with pain from the sharpness of the belt, the love they shared through thick and thin, through the pain of rejection and their shared understanding of survival.

“Credence?” Newt’s voice is gentle, finding itself wavering ever so slightly, touched by the rawness, the bareness of Credence, open in all his tender majesty. “Are you alright?”

“Y-yeah.” Credence gets up from the bed, following Newt to the doorway. He steals a glance back at Modesty, who gives him her best smile, and he leaves, shutting the door behind him. He usually checks Chastity, too, but Newt is leading him back through to his own bedroom. His suitcase is tucked neatly under Credence’s desk, bound with string, by his duvet. Newt moves to sit down, but pauses, turning around.

“Now, look, are you _sure_ you’re alright?”

Credence smiles weakly. “No. But I’m happier than I usually am, so I think that counts.”

Newt chews his lip, looking unhappy, and he reaches up his hand to Credence’s cheek, cupping it, watching the skin gradient from peach to pink under his touch. “I’m here for you,” he says simply, and waits for Credence, who revels in the contact like Newt is heaven sent, to step back, though he doesn’t want to.

“Goodnight, Credence,” says Newt.

“Goodnight, Newt,” says Credence, and he clambers into his bed, the mattress strong and firm against his knotted back. He looks over to Newt, who is already well tucked beneath his duvet, his feet poking out a touch at the bottom. Credence pulls his knees up to his chest, nestles his head on his arm, and shuts his eyes, barely noticing when sleep takes him, his only thoughts being of how much he treasures this moment, this companionship, this love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it!

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment if there's anything you'd like to see! Thank you for reading, and please leave feedback if you have any!


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